


The Things We Do for Money

by Talkin_to_a_Lady



Series: Noir Redemption [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Morgan - Freeform, Detective Noir, F/M, Gen, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Other, POV Arthur, Private Investigators, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24697540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talkin_to_a_Lady/pseuds/Talkin_to_a_Lady
Summary: Inspired by pictures of Noir Arthur on Instagram (private account)Everyone has a price. And depending on his bank Balance, P.I. Morgan's can vary hugely.Even good men gotta eat.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Noir Redemption [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785544
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment to see Arthur as a Philip Marlowe type. Be kind to me just in case. I love Noir and I felt he was perfect for it

It’s late… Or Early… Either way it’s dark, and either way it don’t stop my head feelin’ like it has been bashed in with a baseball bat. I guess livin’ in a three-day haze of whiskey and god-knows-what-else ain’t as rewardin’ as it once was. Guess I’m gettin’ old.

The light is still glowin’ in the waitin’ room, but there’s no sounds from any of the connectin’ offices. So, I guess it don’t help me work out if it’s early, _or late_. Top-class detective or what?  
“ _Christ sake, Morgan._ ” even my own self is sick of my melancholy as I bury one side of my face into my hand and squint at that crappy light through the glass in my office door.  
“ _I need to change that sign._ ” I shoulda never trusted someone who can’t even get into the police force to stick around at this. And I _definitely_ shouldn’t have let him pick the name. Ridiculous kid. It’s been needin’ a change ever since Johnny Boy knocked up that chick, and she made him give this all up _for his own safety._ Everyone leaves eventually, don’t see why he shoulda been any different.  
My body ain’t forgivin’ me anytime soon but that don’t stop me needin’ to force myself up outta this goddamn chair and slumpin’ my way to the coffee machine, ready to make the strongest cup of Joe in my life.  
“ _M &M Detective Agency. God awful._” I go over to the door, take out a quarter from my pocket and give a half-assed attempt at scratchin’ off one of the ‘M’s. That goddamn name has caused me to bust my knuckles more times than workin’ any case has. Most of the jaws I’ve broke belonged to cops who liked to push it. That Goddamn Milton started the ‘Candy Dicks’ name, and I swear to god, if I had the energy to do so, I’d have put that S.O.B. six feet under by now. I give up scratchin’ at the glass, it probably needs turpentine or somethin’ equally as strong, and as I’ve drank all the consumable potent liquids in this place, looks like I’ll be takin’ a trip to the hardware store.

The smells of coffee start to filter through the staleness of the office and staleness of my brain, and I wish I’d just stayed put in that chair. Lookin’ across the room at the state it was in, that painful nausea of hangover shame begins to hit me. I don’t even know how I got back here last night, and I decide to not dwell on it, otherwise I might begin to remember. I pour a thick tar-like slug of caffeine into my cup and shuffle back towards my desk, and wince as I pull the cord of my desk lamp. The scene is a mess; an ashtray overflowin’, at least two empty bourbon bottles lyin’ on their side, and the safe door behind it all is ajar, there’s only one reason I’d open that in my state. My head begins to kick my ass, “ _You need to throw that picture out._ ” I keep doin’ this to myself, _every time_. I lean over the desk and pick up the creased and crumpled photograph; you can barely even see Mary in it now, it’s so old and worn, but still I insist on torturin’ myself with it whenever I get the drunken opportunity to do so. I take one final long look at Mary’s faded image, smile bitterly and throw it back into the safe to keep the cobwebs and empty cash box company. I sit back down with great trouble and choke back the beginnins of my coffee before fumblin’ in my grimy jacket pocket for a pack of smokes. The carton looks pretty busted – squashed from me lyin’ on it all night judgin’ by the drool pool on my desk. I pull out the first one that I can, shove it in my mouth and reach for the matches. I’ll need to sober up if I’m to find my way home.

I snort myself awake; my head knockin’ loudly in my ears, nearly chokin’ on the end of the cigarette that soothed me back to sleep; Mary always said they’d kill me. Another bitter joke. My body is most definitely not my friend now; my neck aches and this creaky-as-shit piece of kindlin’ I sit on digs into every section of me. I look up startled; it’s still dark. Perhaps darker than before, then I realise the light from the waitin’ room is partially blocked.  
I shake myself to make out the shadow; it was a silhouette of a person. Not that it could’ve been anythin’ else, but this person certainly held the shape of somethin’ you could stare at for hours, and they ain’t even walked through the door yet. Then I realise: that knockin’ ain’t in my head.  
“ _For Christ’s sake! Open the door_!”  
And she did.

She marched in like my old Sergeant, only she was far easier on the eye; curves that guided you effortlessly up to a face that could kill on command. She seemed angry.  
“I was waiting a long time.”  
Well-spoken and angry.  
“Well, it’s outta hours.” I groan as I adjust my unhappy limbs to try and fit back in the chair, I gesture for her to sit. She seems annoyed I didn’t stand on ceremony, I never see the point in it; she’s gonna sit eventually anyhow, not forgettin’ the fact that my legs may not even work no more. I light another crushed cigarette, prop my foot on the edge of my desk, and wait.  
“It’s 10.”  
“That’s outta hours, Miss.”  
“ _In. The. Morning_.”  
“… I work nights.”  
She scoffs with disgust at my manner and invites herself to strut over to the blinds, pullin’ them up unforgivinly with one sharp motion, almost blindin’ me from the Saint Denis sun. She’s backlit again, and that sweepin’ figure stands judgementally in my office.  
“You know there’s a seat right ther-”  
“I was told you could help me.”  
“If it’s with teachin’ you how to sit down, I’d say I’m a failure.” My cigarette sticks to my bottom lip as I shut off my desk light and gesture again, more irritated this time. She huffs and flounces to the chair. She brings with it the most petulant of pouts; one only women with a long-standin’ ability to fake their public decorum can manage. I doubt she remembers how her face honestly reacts.  
“It says ‘M&M’ on the door.”  
“How perceptive of you.”  
“Just like th-”  
“It is _not_ like the candy.”  
She smirks at me; her rouged lips pursed in tight amusement. Goddamn Marston and his stupid decisions.  
“So, which ‘ _M_ ’ are you?”  
“Depends on what time of day it is.” I throw back the last of the cold sludge of coffee with a grimace.  
She eyes me with vague revulsion, I guess I’m not lookin’ my best, and maybe she ain’t a fan of the smells of old tobacco, whiskey and coffee as an air freshener.  
“I was _told_ you could help me.”  
“So you have said,” I mumble, my eyes fixed on her legs; the only thing keepin’ me interested in prolongin’ this conversation, “but you are yet to explain exactly _how_.”  
“My husband is cheating on me.”  
“Lucky fella! He must be exhausted.” I chuckle to myself as I force the end of my smoke into the already full ashtray. She didn’t find it quite as funny.  
“I need _you_ to prove it.”  
“You mean you don’t know?”  
“ _I mean_ I need you to prove it.”

I hate these types of requests. I hate them more when I have a hangover, cotton-mouth and a desperate need for a shower.  
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I ain’t a reporter from the gossip columns, can’t you get one of your girlfriends to follow him on their day off?”  
“It might be with one of my girlfriends.”  
“Yeesh.” I shake my head and wince, “Some friends you got, lady.”  
“She’s welcome to him. I just need proof it’s true.”  
Somethin’ about this is odd; odder than usual; She’s not remotely upset at this revelation, she seems desperate and keen for it to be real.  
“Are you wantin’ this to be true or are you just wantin’ an answer?”

She sits up, her stockinged legs shift as her knee hitches lightly and she pulls a small silver cigarillo case from her purse. She slides a smoke gently into her mouth and looks at me with experienced, hooded eyes, waitin’ for me to start actin’ as society prescribes. I don’t know why she would think I am suddenly one for etiquette, but somehow it works, and I find myself walkin’ to her side of the desk, leanin’ down and lightin’ her cigarette. She smells good; like the park when the flowers are in bloom, and it makes me shrink away to avoid chokin’ her on my 72hr stench. I sit against the desk and look down at her.  
“Have you ever married for money, Mister…?”  
“Morgan. No. But I’ve been left for it.”  
“Well I didn’t get a choice of either. My father married me off to that old fat bastard Cornwall.”  
“ _Leviticus Cornwall?_ ” I almost fall backwards. This young beautiful, assertive woman in front of me bein’ pious enough to allow that to happen don’t seem right somehow.  
“How the hell did a lady like you agree to that?!”  
“ _I. Didn’t._ ” Maybe I was wrong about her knowin’ how to react honestly, “He basically bought me from my father. We had no money and I used to work as a Chorus Girl at the Râleur. That’s where he saw me.”  
That explains her figure, and how difficult it is to notice anythin’ else in the room. I turn back to my side of the desk.  
“That Cornwall is a big deal.” I mutter. The job intrigues me. Not only because I need money, but because I hate that asshole; he owns pretty much everythin’, pricin’ hard-workin’ folks out of the market. Hell, he even owns the police and the press in this city. And when you own them, you’re untouchable.  
“I’m well aware of that, Mister Morgan.”  
“He won’t be pleased about bein’ accused of adultery neither.”  
“ _You think?!_ ” She isn’t a fan of me ruminatin’ over the obvious.  
“Alright, what’s the reason for this? Why not just leave?”  
“Because I need money.” She huffs herself out of the chair and swings that body frustratedly around my room. “The only way I’ll get a dime is if I can _prove_ he’s unfaithful.”

I stare at my safe; there was one part of her story that really woke me up.

“… You said you’re broke…?”  
“… Yes.”  
“So what, _exactly_ , did you think I would do this for? _A pat on the back?!_ ”  
“I… I was told you were a good man… That you helped those that needed help.”  
I turn and reach down to my desk’s bottom drawer in the vain hope I have somethin’ stronger than coffee to help me through the beggin’ stage. No such luck – Damned drunk.  
“Lady, I don’t live on reputation. Now. Unless you got money, I ain’t the man you want. I got other things to be busy with.”  
I knew it was a mistake to say that; she looked around my office with a vaguely entertained glint in her eye. The place gave me up quicker than an informant.  
“Still…” I mumble, “I don’t survive on pleasantries.”  
“I can pay you, but _after_ it’s done.”  
“And _after_ you divorce, and _after_ you get your money.” I shake my head, “That’s years away. _If_ that sonofabitch agrees to it. And from what I know he ain’t exactly _amenable to partin’ with cash_.”

“… _Please._ ”

Her voice was so soft I weren’t sure she had even spoke. I didn’t wanna look at her, I knew what would happen when I did.

“I can’t keep living like this.”

I heard the click of her heels on the floorboards as she moved towards me, I could smell the park in bloom. I looked up.  
“ _Fine_.” I heard myself say reluctantly, “But I will write you a bill and you will sign it and _I will_ get what I charge you.”  
“Of course, Mister Morgan.”


	2. Chapter 2

I stood under the shower like I’d die without it. It was gonna take a lot to scrape the grime off, all the while thinkin’ about that stray that came in beggin’ for help; of all the hangovers I’d had in my time, she was by far the most welcome.  
This case weren’t gonna be simple, marriage never is. At least so I’m told. But Cornwall weren’t a simple man neither, and with most of the cops on his payroll I’d need to be smart about how this was done. Not so easy when ‘dumb’ is my wheelhouse. Matthews was my ‘in’ for that side of things. Poor guy, shoulda retired by now, but with Bessie gone, he’s better off sittin’ at a desk at work, than rottin’ away in his home. Besides, it means there’s at least one good man on the force that I can trust, and he’ll keep me ahead of any mooks Cornwall puts on my tail.  
But where to start? Breakfast. That’s where, though I guess it’s more like lunch now, and my gut is screamin’ louder than my car’s brakes. I towel off and slump my way to the kitchen, I know what the answer is, but I open the refrigerator anyway, “ _Nothin’_. _Not even an onion._ ” Guess I can add grocery store to the list of places I need to head today. Maybe tomorrow is a better idea. I get dressed and head back out, off to find sustenance and some form of an idea.

Pearson’s is a dump; a real dive of a place to eat. The idea of it havin’ restaurant status is a pipe dream; you could barely call it a café, but it does eggs all day, and coffee that would put hairs on a woman’s chest. Add a steak into the mix and I start to feel human again. What the hell, that Cornwall girl ain’t seen the bill yet, I can expense it. Maybe add interest seein’ as it’ll be 10 years until I see a goddamn cent, “ _Why did you have to look up at her, Morgan? She weren’t playin’ fair, she knew you were hungover._ ”  
I light up a cigarette and start to go over the facts she left me with:  
She used to dance at the Râleur.  
She had no money to her name before this. None now, technically speakin’.  
Cornwall comes and goes often, but never says when or where, “ _helpful, lady, real helpful._ ”  
She always sees him on Saturdays, but he usually goes to his club of an evenin’, and doesn’t return until Sunday mornin’, when they go to church to make a donation, “ _What a good little god-fearin’ asshole he is_.”  
He calls her his little apple. I can feel the nausea comin’ back.  
Judgin’ by his taste in fruit, I guess my first check-in will be the theatre, but it’s a Monday, I think; no one has fun on Mondays. Maybe I’ll swing by, see if there’s a rehearsal.

It’s been a long time since I took in a show, not like it’s somethin’ a fella tends to do on his own, least, not if he’s decent. Says a lot about old Cornwall I guess, though none of it is a surprise.  
I always think how funny the grandiose layout of this place is considerin’ it’s mainly for cabaret shows. I guess it makes everyone feel more important bein’ there; adds some B.S. sense of class to watchin’ girls do high kicks in short outfits.  
The cool marble entrance whispers music from the auditorium as my shoes squeak across its floor; the place is deserted, not a soul around, save for some weed at the box office givin’ me a scowlin’ welcome.  
“There’s no Matinee on Mondays. No show at all.”  
It _was_ Monday after all, “So why are you standin’ at the ticket office?”  
“To… Sell tickets for later in the week…” The fella seems unsure of his purpose in life generally, let alone at that moment, “… And answer the phone!” He picks up the receiver and wiggles it at me, like I ain’t never seen a telephone before.  
I lean on the counter and laugh through the bars with the exasperation of a kindergarten teacher, when the brown-nosin’ kid thinks the height of validation is clappin board rubbers, “Looks like you’ve made it then, kiddo.”  
“Look, _Sir_ , can I perhaps sell you a ticket for later this week? As I say, _there’s no show_ right now.”  
I know there’s no goddamn show, but this kid seems to have somethin’ to prove. The weeds always do, and usually I get pretty tired of it pretty damn quick, but I was feelin’ in the mood for some needlin’ today, “ _I can hear a show_.”  
“That’s-” he flounces, “They’re rehearsing.”  
“Who might _they_ be then, son?”  
He looks at me like I’m a vagrant ready to besmirch his good name, “… _the Chorus Girls_.” He mumbles and turns pink, _Jesus Christ, grow up, kid_. “So, why can’t I just go and watch that?”  
“It isn’t ready! Look, we’ll be closing up in an hour, please can you just buy a ticket or leave?”  
One of my favourite pastimes is makin’ folks uncomfortable, I’m a natural at it, and I got what I came for, “Alright, kid, calm yourself, I’ll come by later on in the week, to get my ticket. I’ll let you get back to answerin’ telephones.” I turn with a wave and make my way back to the car before the boy wilts under his own nervousness.

It’s hot today, and I can’t decide whether bein’ inside or outside of the car is worse. I stay inside, at least I can sit down then. Only ten minutes until the place is closin’, so I park up by the stage door and wait. I roll up my sleeves and open my shirt by one more button, dig into my groceries and pull out a peach. Not the most practical of snacks, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat an apple again. Goddamn Cornwall. I mean _why ‘Apple’_? Does she keep doctors away? I sit there and think back to her in my office; dressed like tightly bound money with an attitude to match. But there was somethin’ of an edge to her; before she told me she was broke I knew she had been her whole life; she had grit.  
“ _Peaches…_ ” I mutter to my groceries in the passenger seat, “Now if he called her _that_ , I could understand.” I’ll not easily forget that tight wrapped roll of hundreds as she sashayed it out of my room. I smirk and finish my snack in one big bite, just as the stage door opens and a group of chatterin’ gazelles gambol out of it.  
I heave myself out the Studebaker and head towards them, “Erm, excuse me, ladies, I was wonderin’ if you could help me?” They stare at me like I’m a deviant. I explain that I was a friend of Mr Cornwall’s and check to see if any of them flinch.  
“Not lookin’ like that you’re not, Mister!” The snootiest of them sneered at me, “What do you want?”  
The only tactic I got is not a bright one. But that is my wheelhouse, “I got a message from him… for, erm… _a friend_.” All their ears prick up then; like they hear a lion approachin’.  
“What is it?” old snooty enquires, as she pushes forward.  
“He finds himself a little… _light_ on his weekly workload for once. And was wonderin’ if anyone would care to keep him company sometime this week.”  
“What about his _wife?_ ”  
“She don’t know he’s got any free time.”  
Snooty crosses her arms victoriously, and peels what I think is a toothy smile across her tight face, maybe it’s just gas though, either way she wouldn’t make a good poker player, “And why couldn’t he come down and say this?”  
“Lady,” I laugh, genuinely laugh, “this is Mister _Cornwall_ we’re talkin’ about! He’s got someone for everythin’!”  
All the other creatures around her giggle and that condescension snaps back to a thin-lipped scowl, “Well, _messenger boy_ , tell him _some of us work_ the _same_ amount _every week_ , so he can just come by and say hello after the last show on Saturday as usual.”  
“Alright, ma’am, I’ll be sure he’s here _as usual_.” I tug at the brim of my hat lightly, nod and bid them farewell. Not too rough an afternoon, and an early finish to get home. All in all, one of my better days on a case, even if it's currently for free.

After I put the groceries away, I light a smoke and grab the card Peaches scrawled her number on, it’s after 5pm and before 7pm, so she will answer should anyone ring. “ _The world of the rich and lazy, lucky bastards_.” Thanks to that ticket peddler I can easily identify my telephone and call her.  
“ _…Hello?_ ”  
“It’s me.”  
“… _And_?”  
Not quite the conversation I was expectin’, “I think I got somethin’.”  
“ _Oh! Well. That is quite surprising, I didn’t think you’d get started quite so soon_.”  
“Is that a problem? I mean, you did point out you had already waited a long time today. And seein’ as the sooner I get this done, the sooner I’m paid I thought I should get to it.” Some people.  
“… _I can’t really talk now._ ” Her breathy tones ain’t helpin’ my already tired brain keep focus.  
“I guessed that.”  
“ _Listen. Can I come by your office tomorrow?_ ”  
“That’s probably wise.”  
“ _I promise I’ll wait until opening hours, say 1pm?_ ”  
I hear the amusement in her voice, I need to end this call, “ _I should be awake by then_.”  
“ _Alright… And… Thank you, Mister Morgan._ ”  
The phone cuts off and I’m left standin’ there holdin’ the receiver like that dumb weed at the Râleur.  
It’s been a long day, and I need another shower.

A cold one this time.


	3. Chapter 3

The one good thing about drinkin’ solidly for three days, and then spendin’ your first sober day fightin’ off a hangover and the Saint Denis heat unsuccessfully, is that you get a solid twelve hours sleep as a reward.  
As I arrive at work and make my way upstairs I hear tense voices mutterin’ from what sounds like the waitin’ room on my floor. It’s 8:30am, no one is open before nine, and the waitin’ room door is locked until the first careerist makes it in. Now, granted it’s rarely me, but I know for a fact that no one arrives before 8:45. Then I hear it, that god-awful wailin’. I grit my teeth, head through the waitin’ room, and reluctantly follow that sound to my office.  
“ _I don’t know why you had to come at all!_ ”  
“ _I am just as worried about him as **you** , John_, _maybe more seein’ as-_ ”  
They eventually stop bein’ so in love with each other enough to realise I’m standin’ there, “Abbie. John.”  
“Hi Arthur.” Abigail greets me with the expression of a tired mother, and wife of a lazy husband, as she bounces that clammy, red-faced snotty kid on her hip.  
“Arthur! How are you?” John’s unnecessary cheeriness this mornin’ can only mean one thing, he read the same newspaper as I did on Friday.  
“I’m dandy, kid, _just dandy_.” I make my way past the concerned faces and dump the paper bag of liquor refills on my desk, “Is there a reason you’re both suddenly here, and so early?”  
“Jack just missed his Uncle Artie, didn’t you sweetheart?” Abigail coos in that way mothers do when she thinks the world feels the same about her kid as she does.  
“Well, _Artie_ ain’t here. I don’t even know him.” I grab the coffee pot, throw the stale cold liquid out the window and begin makin’ a fresh one.  
“Why are you dressed so smart for?”  
I look down at myself and smooth the wrinkle out of the only non-regiment tie I own, “I guess your skills are still as rusty as ever, Marston, but you may remember that I have a business to run. It requires some form of… _Professionalism_.”  
“Is that why you decided to keep the office so tidy?”  
The happy couple take great pleasure in eyein' the array of empty bottles litterin’ my floor. And waste bin. And desk. I pour my coffee, “Look, what do you two want?”  
“We read the newspaper on Friday, Arthur.” Abigail used that simperin’ sweet voice she thinks is carin’, when actually it just grates on you like a mother askin’ why you ain’t settled down yet.  
“Did you manage to finish the crossword?”  
“ _We saw the announcements_.”  
“Ah!” All I want is my breakfast, and these two decide that today is the day they interrupt my routine to let me know they’re worried about me.  
“Are you alright, Arthur?” Abigail brings that rosy cheeked bundle of fluids close to me and it stares wide eyed right at me. Cute kid.  
“I’m fine. Got a good twelve hours last night.” Now all three of them are lookin’ at me like kittens needin’ homes, “If you’d bothered to ask me on Friday I doubt I’d have remembered how to speak, let alone make out who you were,” I offer them a quick smile, seems they need reassurin’ more than I do, “but I’m good.”  
“You know, that Linton fellow is pretty known in the higher circles.” Abigail shoves little Jack at me and goes to pick up all crap in the office.  
“I know. Look you don’t have to worry or come here to clean up. Why do you think I’m in so early? Certainly ain’t to hear about Mary’s engagement again.” I look down to the newly formed warm patch at my chest and notice the kid is asleep and droolin’ on my jacket.  
“If you ever get tired of this gumshoe work, Arthur, maybe you can become a Nanny!” John wheezes like a steam train stoppin’. He always liked his own jokes.  
“Guess I ain’t such the rivetin’ company I would like to be... Hey! You think that Linton is in the same crowd as Leviticus Cornwall?”  
“I doubt it.” Abigail lifts her boy lightly off me and back into his buggy, “Seems he’s very much into his charity work. Gives out almost as much as he makes. He really is a good ma-”  
“ _Yeah, alright._ That’s _great_ news.”  
“Anyway, he and Cornwall ain’t likely to value the same things highly.” Abigail smiles and gives her idiot husband a peck on the cheek before sweepin’ over to me for a hug, “You best come around for dinner sometime, Arthur. Jack misses you.”  
I pat her back with some resemblance of sincerity. My idea of a wild night out ain’t much at the best of times, but splittin’ my time between cryin’ babies interruptin’ dinner, then standin’ in the washroom to smoke really takes the cake, “Sure, Abbie, sure I will.” I glance at John and he laughs knowinly.  
“Anyway, I will let you boys catch up. I’ll see you shortly, John.”  
I watch as she leaves with only one of her infant-minded boys and turn back to see John standin’ there with that dumb smile he always has, “Ain’t you forgotten somethin’?”  
“What?”  
“Leavin’.”  
“Always the comedian, eh, Morgan?”  
“I dunno, I always thought my sentiments were pretty serious.” I sit at my desk, prop my feet up on it, take out my breakfast and light it, “Why are you still here anyhow?”  
“Keys.” Marston drops his set at my feet with a jangle, “Finally gettin’ around to droppin’ them off.”  
“The old lady really not lettin’ you back here, huh?”  
“No.” John sighed, “She says it’s too dangerous.”  
“Only if you know what you’re doin’.” I mumble through my smoke, “What are you doin’ for work then?”  
“Security Guard.”  
I don’t think he appreciated quite how hard I laugh at the revelation, I nearly suck the length of my cigarette into the back of my throat.  
“ _It’s only at the Tribune_.” John glares at me as I regain my composure, “I’ve just started on nights for a while.”  
“How _inconvenient_ for Mrs Marston and little Jack.” I chuckle into my coffee as John smirks.  
“So. What’s the need for a tie? Business or pleasure?”  
“Ain’t no one wearin’ a tie for fun, John. I got work.”  
“What’s her name?”  
“Be quiet.”  
“Funny name.” I hear that train pullin’ into the station again.  
“Listen, she is a client. She’s Cornwall’s wife. That’s why I was askin’ about Linton. Might be an in.” Had nothin’ to do with me hopin’ he liked to pick apples from the same orchard as Mr Cornwall.  
“ _Sure_ , Arthur, _that’s why_. Look I best go. Don’t be expensin’ all of those groceries to the girl, she might not get so doe-eyed for you if you do.”  
I see him to the door, if only to make sure he actually leaves, say I will come round for a beer sometime, and watch him jog down the stairs towards somethin’ resemblin’ a normal life.

It’s 12:50, and the office is sparklin’ in the sun. If I could trust Abigail not to rifle through my things, I’d be tempted to hire her as a cleaner full time. But then, she’d also be here full time. It was bad enough when she used to just stop by and visit John.  
I go to my door, and pull it open so Peaches can swan right in. I gotta stop callin’ her that. And I gotta get that second goddamn ‘M’ off the glass. ‘M Detective Agency’ ain’t no better though, “ _Jesus Christ the whole thing will need changin’._ ”  
My stomach begins to growl, maybe I shoulda had somethin’ a little more substantial this mornin’; I’m not used to gettin’ up so early, and it’s bitten me square on the ass. At least I know not to do it again. 12:55, definitely no time to grab a bite.  
The buzzer to my office goes and I realease the front door lock without answerin’, then go wait by the door like some ridiculously dressed Labrador as I hear her shoes click up the stairs.  
She arrives at my stop and strains a smile. I’m not sure if she’s worried or tired out from luggin’ that wicker basket on her arm.  
“Mrs Cornwa-”  
“ _Shhhh!_ ” The hiss from her lips along with her eyes poppin’ makes me think she should come off the stove, “May I come in, please, Mr Morgan?”  
“Sure, Sure…” She’s already halfway through to my office before I even say anythin’, “ _make yourself at home_.”  
She places the basket on my desk with more effort than it should take and she straightens up to look at me as I close the door, “I thought lunch might be a good idea. Seeing as you’re obviously working through it.”  
“Am I?” I shuffle back to my desk and lift the gingham napkin from the top of the goods. There’s a lot of small-cut sandwiches which wouldn’t even fill baby Jack, and it looks like I’m providin’ my own refreshments.  
“Well… I just assumed… You said you had something…?”  
“Oh! Well, yeah but I already got that. It’s not really a work-through-lunch kinda ‘ _somethin’’._ ”  
“Is it good news?” It’s funny how eager she is. And what she classifies as ‘ _good news_ ’ in this situation.  
“Well, I mean, there’s certainly an admirer of sorts.”  
“How did you find out?”  
I grab two glasses and pour some bourbon, shovin’ one towards her as I sit back at my desk, the ridiculous basket of tiny food almost blockin’ her from view, “Well, Cornwall may have a lot of money, but he’s still a fella with two brains, and the smaller one is in charge of romance.”  
“ _Smaller is right_.” She mumbles into her drink, much to my amusement.  
“Well then, the _tinier_ the mind, the smaller the imagination. He’s had luck at the Râleur before, he’s gonna go back and keep his winnin’ streak.”  
“ _I **knew** it!_” she laughed briefly in victory, “Who is it?”  
“I ain’t too sure about that yet.” I shrug, “Though there was one particularly uptight stick that seemed animated when I mentioned him.” I pull myself up and dig around for a handful of triangles until it makes up roughly one half of a grown up’s sandwich.  
“ _You spoke to them?!?!_ ”  
“Yeah.”  
“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!”  
“I’m hungry.” I shrug, and she doesn’t seem charmed by my wit, “Listen, lady, whoever your husband is with of a Saturday evenin’, she ain’t about to get concerned about some fella sayin’ Cornwall wants to spend more time with her. The floozy seemed happy enough knowin’ that he was neglectin’ you.”  
Even with a clenched jaw she was somethin’ worth starin’ at, “So, what’s your plan next, huh? Maybe you can come to our house and just tell him that you know! That seems about your remit for espionage.”  
 _Espionage_. _Jesus Christ._ “You want this done? I’m gettin’ it done.” I choke down the last slimy piece of cucumber sandwich, “Saturday night, I get to do the really sleazy part of my job. The part that makes Mommas disappointed. Then, you’d better work out how you’re gonna get my cash to me.”  
I realise I’m standin up and leanin’ over my desk, over the absurd picnic, and looking straight into her wide, beautiful eyes.  
“… _What’s the sleazy part?_ ” I can’t tell if she’s scared or excited.  
“I gotta get pictures of… _Well_ , of whatever I can to prove you’re bein’ taken for a fool.”  
She swallows and leans forward, “ _I can help you. I know that place, I know where you can get a good spot outside to see_.” She’s gettin’ breathy again.  
I push myself back away from her in time to see the end of my tie takin’ a sip of my drink. Goddamn pointless accessory.  
“You might need a new tie for Saturday if we’re heading to the theatre, Mr Morgan.” The playful twist of her ruby lips draw my eye as she stifles a laugh at my expense before she hides it by throwin’ the last of my good liquor down her beautiful neck.  
“I’ll expense it.”


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week was uneventful, save for my brief revisit to purchase my tickets for the late performance on Saturday night; judgin’ by the kid’s reaction he’d really missed me. I made his day even more excitin’ by askin’ to see the seatin’ plan of the theatre before makin’ my purchase. Cornwall always sat in one of the box seats nearest the stage, so his wife told me, _of course he did_ ; best view of his favourite delights. I needed a seat in the shadows with a perfect view of his own, and seein’ as I was to be accompanied now, I needed to be sure she’d not be recognised either. I got two seats back aways in the stalls, right in the centre of the row. Not cheap, this expenses sheet is gettin’ long.

We had agreed to meet at the venue; save too many folks talkin’, and she’d have to wait until her _beloved_ had made his excuses before she could begin to leave their home anyway. I parked up not far from the stage door and in between street lamps, tryin’ to decide quite how I was to carry my camera; the bulky thing barely fit inside my jacket pocket without rippin’ it, and my damned suit weren’t quite as loose as it was in my younger days. I struggle on and, thanks to the rain, use my trench coat to pack my pockets out more comfortably. Checkin’ my watch I see I’m early, and none-too-keen to hover in the packed-out foyer.  
I don’t like waitin’; it gives me too much time to think, and it always leads to one place; Mary. I don’t know why the woman plays on my mind as much as she does, maybe it’s because of the hoops I jumped through for her and got very little in return. You’d have thought she’d like a well-travelled man, but I guess shootin’ Germans in Europe ain’t quite the right kind of travel. I managed to impress her originally by speakin’ the small amount of French I’d learned, though I spoke it like any American who can barely speak his own language. I guess that’s why I stayed here; there’s a piece of the better sides of that continent with the amount of French speakers. That bein’ said, there’s all kinds of folks in Saint Denis and few ever seem to be my kind of folks; either drunk bums left beggin’ in the streets, or drunk bums somehow earnin’ fortunes; either way, alcohol plays a big part in this town. I guess, right now, I’m just a bum who wishes he was drunk, especially when Mary’s name rolls around again. Maybe I had wanted somethin’ different; somethin’ where a woman made you work for it, rather than one so relieved and thankful you’d saved them that they would do anythin’ to make it up to you; no money needed. But four years is a long time to starve a man, and seein’ the news she’d agreed to becomin’ Mrs Mary Linton after barely twelve months, I guess she was gettin’ a little hungry herself.

I pull my coat collar up, and my hat brim down, heave myself out of the car and march through the rain towards the gaudy entrance of the Râleur, rewardin’ myself with a cigarette once I arrive. I keep to myself in the corner near the doors no one ever uses and wait. The crowd begin to start shufflin’ towards the Auditorium, and then I see him, _Cornwall_. He’s bein’ escorted by a couple of younger and rowdier fellows, and _Goddamn Milton_ ; that greasy snake. If he was any further up Cornwall’s ass he’d be doin’ the walkin’ for them both. I shrink back into the shadow a little more as they turn and make their way upstairs to the private box seats.

There’s barely anyone left in the foyer now, and I’m gettin’ a little itchy that she ain’t gonna show. Not that I need her to, but still.  
“ _Ahem._ ”  
I turn and look at that old familiar face which drops with irritated realisation as I smile at him, “Ah! Hello kiddo! Not on telephone duty this evenin’?”  
“The show you’ve been so desperate to see is starting soon, _Sir_.”  
“I’m waitin’ on the owner of my second ticket.”  
“I hope they arrive. I’m sure you don’t want to be late, _after all this_.”  
I slap his shoulder, “If only I coulda caught the rehearsal, we’d not be so nervous I’d miss important _plot points_ to their Can-Can routine, eh?”  
He had no interest in followin' up my summation and turned on his heel with a roll of his eyes. It was then I saw her step out of her car.

There’s a real knack to women gettin’ out of cars, I don’t know how they manage it, but they make time slow down; stayin’ completely in shadow except for that first long leg onto the pavement, it’s like a small show before the main attraction as they flow out of the vehicle like a wave of glitter and eyelashes, “ _This is a job, Morgan, keep focused_.” I watch her as she’s escorted to the door by a man with an umberella; four years is a long time to starve a man, and then you put all the trimmins in front of him and tell him it’s someone else’s. I force myself forward as her driver makes his way back to the car and disappears into the night.  
“ _Sorry I’m late_.”  
She flusters at invisible problems with her hair and I hold her ticket out dumbly, “Ain’t that a woman’s prerogative?”  
“Not when she respects herself even slightly, _no_.” she snatches the ticket playfully from my hand, and pulls a wicked pucker-lipped smile, “Shall we go enjoy the show?”  
“I already have.” I hold out my arm and bend my elbow for her to wrap around it, and escort her quickly to our seats as the lights go down.

The centre of the row was a good idea on paper, but when it’s dark and everyone else is seated, it brings its own problems. After treadin’ on more toes than I can count, and hearin’ enough tuts to make me think the place has a Deathwatch beetle problem, we get seated.  
I feel a light tap on my left arm and see the outline of her elegant arm stretched towards the box seatin’. The man is illuminated like some rotund Christmas ornament, all the boxes have some amount of lightin’, but my dislike for him seems to make his seat brighter than everyone else’s; like there’s a spotlight just for him. The host steps out onto the stage and begins some spiel as I nod in the dark to Cornwall’s wife and pat her hand down to let her know I’ve seen the target of her pointin’.  
The show is professional enough; some comedy double act, a singer or two, and then the reason the majority of husbands agree to be dragged along to this with their wives; the dancin’ girls. I look up towards the reason I’m dragged here and see that Cornwall has become _most attentive_ to the show. He turns and talks to his cronies sat behind him, and they all nod and laugh like school-boys watchin’ girls go to class. Milton is the only one there lookin’ bored. As much as I hate to say it, maybe his one redeemin’ feature is that he married the girl he likes oglin’.  
It’s the strange strangled noise of disgust that comes from my left that brings me back to the rest of the room, I turn and see my companion with a most sullen look on her face; arms crossed as tightly as her legs are and a glare fired forward to the dancer up front; _Old Snooty herself._  
“ _She always wanted that spot! **Always**!_” Mrs Cornwall hisses, “ _She couldn’t **wait** for me to be outta there_.”  
I look at the woman on stage; long and lean; all limbs; straight as an arrow with little more than half an ostrich on her head. She looked like a glitzy feather duster, “ _I’m pretty sure she’s got your husband, too_.” I let my eyes flick between Snooty and Cornwall like I was a spectator at some kind of tawdry tennis game. I get tired of it eventually and lean back prayin’ for the interval. It takes long enough to materialise, and my frame don’t fit comfortably in these small seats as it is, but the room is gettin’ warm and it’s bringin’ with it new distractions in the form of perfume. It’s not like park flowers this evenin’, it’s somethin’ more; headier, with a depth to it you could happily drown in. This is why I don’t take on women’s cases. As if the fates are actually on my side for once, the last high kick of this half is done. Folks applaud and whistle and the house lights come up. Before the Curtain has even stopped bouncin’ closed, Cornwall is up outta his chair and movin’ in what I imagine he believes is a _hurried manner_ , towards the door of his private box, and before I know it I’m bein’ jostled out of my seat by a delightful shove from my left. Followin’ her lead, I pick up my coat and hat and stroll past the bustle at the bar, out towards the foyer.  
“You seen enough?”  
“The girls won’t be back on until the end of the second half, they haven’t changed the set up since I worked here!” she laughs with some exasperation as she begins to wrap herself back up in her outdoor attire, “If Lev is-”  
“ _Lev?!_ ” I cough out a stifled chuckle.  
“Come on, it’s a far less awful name than his _actual_ one.” I gotta admit, she ain’t wrong, “ _Anyway_ , if he’s still the same desperate creep I know him as, he’ll be getting back to her room now and plying her with all kinds of expensive unsellable _crap_.”  
That last part makes me laugh, she must’ve tried hockin’ everythin’ he bought her, and I liked that, “So. You said you knew a spot…?”  
She stares excitedly, grips my wrist and drags me out to the street.

The rain is comin’ down real hard now, and it’s almost deafenin’ as it hits the flagstones. Still bein’ lead wherever she wants me, we splash down the street, past my car, past the stage door, and towards an alleyway beside the buildin’, “There’s a fire exit right out onto this alley from the dressing rooms. We have a window looking out onto nothing, don’t ask me why but I guess they think it means we get some light.”  
All I think is it gives some beggars a free show on a weekend, “Alright, look, you go back inside and-”  
“What?! I’m not going back in there!”  
There had been no sign of her driver when we left, and it’s rainin’ too hard for her to stay outside waitin’ for him, “Okay, look, take my keys and wait in my car, it’s the Studebaker by the Stage Doo-”  
She shoves my keys back at me with some offence, “I’m coming with you. Now. Down there.”  
“ _Why?!_ ”  
“ _Fun._ ” She grins at me as the rain begins to melt her painted face and she skips off towards our target. I groan and with heavy feet splash my way towards her silhouette.  
“ _You know, I don’t usually need a sidekick on these things._ ” I mutter at her through the rain as she stops short of the glow from the window, “ _And **usually?** Usually the wife ain’t so keen on seein’ the adultery first-hand._”  
“Most of them probably love their husbands too.” She jokes as she shuffles her way quietly behind some trash cans opposite the window and crouches down before she beckons me over. I gotta say, I ain’t never seen an expensively dressed lady so ready to sit in the garbage, guess it makes sense for her to wear all black this evenin’; it don’t show up the dirt so easy. The spot is perfect, I dread to think how she knows it would be, though the ‘free shows for beggars’ guess is lookin’ more likely than ever.  
There’s nothin’ much happening beyond Snooty waftin’ around in some silky robe, and this is the part I don’t like. None of it is ideal, and if I had a Momma she’d sure be disappointed in me, but hangin’ around a lady’s dressin’ room window with a camera is why we get roped in with the wrong guys in town.  
Finally she moves towards her door and the whole seedy business can begin. As she opens it, he's there, just like a cliché; some big bunch of roses, a bottle of nice lookin’ fizz, and a look on his face that says Christmas has arrived early.  
“ _You getting this?_ ”  
“ _Gettin’ what? The man’s only leerin’ at her right now._ ”  
Their actions soon shut me up as he grabs Snooty for a kiss, which is pretty funny as she’s taller than him. I get some snaps of the private comedy double act and wait for somethin’ far more nauseatin’ to happen, “ _Listen, sweetheart, I know you don’t care about what he’s doin’ but I can’t think you wanna see it anyway_.”  
“ _Just do your job_.” Is all I get in return.  
I shuffle around in the dirt as the rain continues and I try to keep my camera dry as the love birds sit heavily on the couch in the dressin’ room.  
“ _What are they doing?_ ”  
“ _Looks like talkin’._ ” I ain’t surprised, I doubt many men could be ready for action right away when lookin’ at Snooty’s severe face. Cornwall leans in for some ravenous neck attack as he pulls her to sit sideways on his lap, and I get a few more pictures. There’s enough here to get things done, but then I get that gut-drop feelin’.  
“ _What is it?_ ” Peaches has noticed me freeze.  
“They’re talkin’ again.” The romance has quickly gone as they start arguin’, “looks like she’s mentioned me.” There’s a lot of pacin’ and Cornwall looks like he might have a heart attack, which would probably be as beneficial to his wife as me takin’ these photographs, and far less dangerous for everyone, “We gotta go.”  
For once, she takes an order and follows me quickly down the alleyway towards my car, but not without some reprimand, “ _Well, what a surprise! She **mentions** to him that **someone** set up a fictitious opportunity for them to hook up earlier in the week!_”  
“Shut up. What else did you want?” The rain is still hammerin’ the streets, she looks like she took a dunk in the Lannahechee river, “Listen, I think your husband is gonna have a fit of missin’ you this evenin’. You better get home before he does.”  
“ _How?!_ My driver isn’t due to pick me up for another two hours.”  
I close my eyes and groan to the heavens. I shoulda never let her in my office in the first place, “I’ll take you. Get in the car.”

We drive in silence except for her angry directions, both of us too cold, wet and worried to think to turn on the radio. My car seats are gonna smell like wet animal after this.  
“This’ll do. I’m just up there.” I stop as she points to a house one up from where we are. I look across at her and all the ‘ _fun_ ’ of her night has drained out of her, leavin’ her pale and makeup streaked; somehow, she looks more real and even more desirable.  
“Get in the house and get in the shower, I dunno how but hide everythin’ you’re wearin’ so he won’t go lookin’ for your clothes.” She nods all wide-eyed and shiverin’, “Maybe grab a whiskey to take with you.”  
“What happens next?”  
“Well. I guess I need to borrow a car for a while.”  
“ _With the photographs? With… **this** …?_”  
“I’ll be in touch, don’t you worry. You ain’t got anythin’ to worry about if you just do as I say and act however you usually act with him.”  
“Shouldn’t be too difficult, I try to avoid him even on good days.” I see her smirk and relax a little as she turns to me and places a cold hand on mine, “Thank you, Mister Morgan, I hope nothing untoward comes from your stupidity.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously,  
“There’d be nothin’ happenin’ in my life at all if that were the case, Ma’am. Certainly nothin’ excitin’.”  
She pops the door open and hesitates, “Well, then I guess we can all afford to live a little stupidly.”  
Without warnin’ she launches herself at me and pulls me by my coat collar for a desperate kiss. One of those kisses that bursts out the back of your brain and sends you somewhere above before you plummet to earth. Next thing I know she’s out the door and rushin’ through the rain.

Four years starvin’, and now I’m left with nothin’ more than an appetizer.


	5. Chapter 5

I stare at the office door as I roll my bourbon around the glass in my hand. My gun ain’t far from reach and there’s a spare in the drawer if for some reason I’d need it. “ _This is ridiculous_.” My nerves gnaw at me, and I find myself despisin’ the way I’m livin’; it’s Tuesday now and I’ve been here since Sunday night sat in this stink-hole of an office, _takin’ the goddamn bus_. _Hidin’_ after packin’ a bag and puttin’ my car in the garage. And hidin’ from what exactly? Some fat blowhard who has the cops in his pocket? All on the off-chance Snooty knew what car I drove? No. It’s an old black Studebaker, they’re ten-a-penny. I gotta stop bein’ some frightened little lamb and get on with this, if for no other reason than my expenses bill. I throw back the last wash of booze and check the time. 10pm. John’ll be on shift now, and I need a favour.  
I hate owin’ favours, least of all to the Marstons; they always hold me to ‘em. I pick up the phone book and search for the main line to the Tribune and dial. Ridiculous really, I could see its Gawdy buildin’ lights from my window, but I ain’t makin’ things worse by headin’ over there late at night. The tone rings, it’s a long shot to think anyone would answer so late, but there’s always someone there, surely? Always some grubby reporter needin’ their next story, or some last-minute change needed to the mornin’s issue. Eventually they pick up.  
“ _Yes?!_ ” The fellow seems irate.  
“Is this the Tribune?”  
“Yes! What do you want? I’m very busy!”  
“Do you have a security department? I need to speak to them.”  
The man makes some vague strained noise in his throat, I figure I’ve never made someone so angry they seem to choke on their own tongue before, least not from this distance. He drops the receiver on a desk and I hear him stompin’ off callin’ for John, some bickerin’ goes on in the distance and I hear his tell-tale slope shuffle towards the discarded telephone, “Tribune Security.”  
“My what a professional you are! And so late at night! I’m impressed, Marston.”  
“ _Arthur?!_ Wat the hell? Are you drunk?”  
“Not overly.” I stare at my empty glass, “Certainly not as much as I’d like to be. So, what’s it like gettin’ away from your wife and kid for a nice, quiet evenin’ of bein’ yelled at by your _work_ _wife_?”  
“Very funny. What do you want?”

“I need a favour.” I sigh. I can almost hear his smile, “You think you can do one for me?”  
“ _Of course!_ You know you can _always_ ask me for a favour, Arthur.”  
 _Jesus._ “You made any good buddies down there? Ones that like developin’ negatives?”   
He goes quiet.  
“… Marston?”  
“ _Why?_ ”  
“Work.”  
“The case you were wearin’ the tie for?”  
“Ain’t no one else hirin’ me.”  
I hear him shuffle, and his voice gets muffled, “ _You know who owns this newspaper right?_ ”  
“Ain’t it you?”  
He doesn’t seem to think that’s funny, “ _Jesus Christ, Arthur. This is-_ ”  
“Look, John, it’s late and unlike you I don’t need to stay up, you think you know someone who can help or not?”  
“… Yeah, there’s a guy.”  
“Fantastic! How about I come around for a beer lunchtime tomorrow and we can discuss it? Tell Abigail not to cook, best for all of us.”  
I hear his wheeze of a sigh and he hangs up. So polite.

Next mornin’ I re-pack my coward bag, order a taxi that ain’t run by Cornwall (another expense for Peaches), and head over to John’s a little earlier than planned so I can freshen up; I’m already in for one favour, might as well make it count.  
When I had become a newer man with the same old complaints, I followed the sound of angry cleanin’ to the kitchen where Abigail went about clatterin’ doors as Jack stayed at a relatively safe distance in his high chair, lucky kid.  
“John says you called him like a wise-ass last night tryin’ to get him involved in your… _Nonsense._ ”  
I look at Jack, and he only glances at me before findin’ his toy car absolutely fascinatin’. Even as a baby he knows when to just stay outta things, “Nice to see you too, Abigail.”  
“He’s out of that game, Arthur. _OUT_. You coulda got him fired for what you pulled last night.”  
“I know of a job openin’ in my office if that happens. Wouldn’t even need to change the sign on the d-”  
“I’m serious!”  
I laugh, albeit a little nervously; Abigail Marston is more dangerous than a sniper if you choose to rile her up. I guess there ain’t a lot of room in that tiny frame of hers to fit all the rage. I rest my hands on her shoulders to try and calm the beast, “I know, Abigail. And as far as we are all concerned, that ain’t changed. But it ain’t my fault you nag him into gettin’ a job in the one place I ain’t never had a source before. I mean, a _newspaper…_? _Abigail_. Where do you think us Investigators go when work dries up and we need to find some new potential leads? Hell! Half the reporters in that place only work there because they couldn’t get a P.I. License!”  
She slaps my hands off her and goes to wrench her refrigerator door off its hinges, I decide that was her begrudgin’ acceptance that I’m right.  
“Besides, I ain’t askin’ John to get involved. I just needed him to point me in the direction of some other _poor soul_ who can help me out.” I take the platter of cold cuts she’s shovin’ at me and follow her to the table as John shuffles in from upstairs. Perfect timin’ as always; there for the reward, without havin’ to suffer the work.  
“You know, if I wanted an alarm clock made up of raised voices, I’d have got Abigail to leave Jack in the bedroom.”  
“I think you’ll find it was only one raised voice.” I mutter as Abigail greets her husband with a rough peck on the cheek while throwin’ a murderous glance in my direction before we all sit down to eat.  
“John said nothin’ fancy. And quite frankly, I don’t think you even deserve this.”  
“Well thank you both, for endurin’ the necessity of feedin’ me.” John smirks into his loaded fork as his wife just huffs and scratches her cutlery across her plate.

We make small talk through lunch, Abigail’s anger at me is short-lived as she goes back to focusin’ on feedin’ Jack before tryin’ to settle him down for the afternoon.  
“I gotta say, Marston, you got it pretty sweet. No wonder you ain’t cut up about leavin’ the Shamus racket.” I look around the grounds of their rented place as I let my limbs creak back into the garden chair and I light up a cigarette, God forbid I light one in the house!  
“There’s no point arguin’ with her, Arthur.”  
“Well considerin’ you were both dumb enough to get caught out, leadin’ to a rush-job to the alter, it’s probably best you didn’t continue down the P.I. path.”  
“Says the man who turned up in a cab.” John snorted, “I’m guessin’ you got made, and that throws off any nosey drivers?”  
“… Not for certain. But it’s not worth the risk, I’ll be makin’ a call to Desk Sergeant Matthews within the next twelve hours, just to be sure I’m as uninterestin’ as ever.”  
“Well, thank you for bringin’ that potential threat to my home too, Morgan.”  
“Relax,” I chuckle through my smoke, “Abigail would see them off in a second. Now, did you lure me here under false pretences or have you actually got someone I can drag into the world of the sleazy detective?”  
“There’s a freelancer, gets hired time to time to do work for interviews and such. He comes in quite often to use the darkrooms when he’s doin’ jobs for the paper.”  
“Great.” I pull the roll of film from my pocket and feel John’s eyes on me.  
“What happened to your stuff…? Why don’t you just do this yourself?”  
“Sold it.” I mumble, “Man’s gotta eat now I can’t _freeload off Mary_ as her delightful father put it, and seein’ as you’re finally of some use to me with your connections, it’s not like I need to earn them back.” I waggle the film cartridge under his nose until he snatches it.  
“Albert Mason’s a nice guy, Arthur. I hope there’s nothin’… _adult in nature_ on this.”  
“Why? Is he a child?”  
“No, but-”  
“Well then, what’s the problem?”  
“He’s not paparazzi, Morgan, and he don’t deserve to have anythin’ bad happen to him for you. He’s a good man.”  
“We all were once, kid. But everybody gets their hands dirty eventually.” I slap his arm and get up, droppin’ the end of my cigarette on his patio, “Listen, just give him that, ask him to develop it all and give it back to you. He don’t need to know why and if he’s smart he won’t wonder too hard as to what he’s printin’. He has honest deniability on his side then, and he ain’t been seen with me.”  
I’m almost angry at Marston; he’s got softer than an angora sweater in cotton wool. That’s what happens to family men – just don’t have the need to fight against the world no more, and they forget how greasy it is at the bottom. I go to the edge of their house and look down the small walkway that leads around to the front. Not that I think there’s been a tail, but I don’t want another reason for the Marstons to complain at me, “What time are you leavin’ for work?”  
“Not for a while, why?”  
“You fancy drivin’ me home, for old time’s sake?”  
“ _Fiiiine_ ,” he sighs, “though it won’t be quite the same. You don’t smell like whiskey and disappointment.”  
“Yeah your shower really washes that out of a man.”

John promised me he’ll check in with Mason, see if he’s around tonight and get those prints done.  
I make sure he knows to have three copies made, and him not to tell Abigail that they’re keepin’ a set for me. He didn’t seem too impressed but I think the guilt of packin’ up and leavin’ me with that clown-shoe of an agency name is still pushin’ on him enough to do right by me for a little longer.  
After a walk through of the house, and sittin’ for an uncomfortable half hour pointin’ a gun at my kitchen door, I figure no one’s after me, not yet anyhow. Still, always best to check in.  
“ _SD PD?_ ”  
“Hi there, could you put me through to the front desk?”  
“ _May I ask what it is regarding?_ ”  
“If you feel you have to.”  
Silence. She’s not the sharpest it would seem, “… _What is it regarding, please?_ ”  
“The front Desk.”  
Her sigh was one of tired acceptance. She must get sick of bein’ treat like crap by assholes like me on the regular. At least she’s got a hobby, “ _Hold please._ ”  
“Matthews.”  
“Hosea! How are you?”  
“… Yes..?”  
“It’s Arthur, Arthur Morga-”  
“Yes, yes, I can hear you.”  
“… I take it you’re accompanied right now?”  
“That would certainly be the correct stance to take.”  
“I’ll make this quick. Can you put your ear around and listen out for my name? Just routine but I might need to watch my step. I’ll be around all night, call me back when you can.”  
“Well I am sure I can fit that into my routine today, I’ll see what I can do. Bye now.”  
Should I start gettin’ a complex over the fact folks just hang up on me when they’re done? No pleasantries left in the world. As I return my receiver to its post, my eye is caught by Mrs Cornwall’s business card; I haven’t checked in on her since that whirlwind of a Saturday night. Until I get those prints, though, there’s no need. I just hope there’s still a Mrs Cornwall to pay me at the end of all this.

It’s late when my telephone rings.  
“Morgan.”  
“ _Arthur._ ”  
“Hey Hosea, how’s work?”  
“What the hell are you doing calling me asking me to snoop around for you? What have you got yourself into now, sonny?”  
 _Sonny_. The old man always makes me laugh. He’s the nearest thing I got to a father, I guess. Or at best some irate Uncle that has been lumbered with a troublemaker.  
“Was there anythin’?”  
“Nothing to write home about. Milton mentioned you in passing, but only because he’d heard about John moving on to work at the Tribune. He thought it was funny.”  
“Well, it’s nice to know he thinks about me I guess.” I drain the whiskey from my glass and look dejectedly across to the other side of the room at the bottle out of reach.  
“So why call me out-of-the-blue for this nonsense? What have you done?”  
“ _Nothin’ to write home about_.” I light up my smoke, “I’m workin’ on a case. Cornwall’s Good Lady Wife hired me to prove she’s not the only woman in his life.”  
I can hear the creak of Hosea’s receiver; the sure-fire sign of a man stressin’ out, “That’s-”  
“A big payout once I get the pictures back.”  
“ _Suicide._ I was going to say suicide.”  
“Only if I’m caught.”  
“And so you calling me in a panic is you being confident you’ve not been caught, is that it?”  
“Look, I’m still alive, Cornwall’s still married and no one is givin’ my name the time-of-day… Except Milton, but I can’t help if that fellow’s in love with me.”  
“Arthur. Just be careful. I can’t save your ass, I’m too old and like my desk too much. I’ll keep an ear _and an eye_ out for you, but tread lightly. Cornwall has the Chief on side.”  
“I’ve never been one for careful treadin’, Hosea, you know that. My steps have always been on the clunky side.”  
“Goodnight, Arthur.”  
“Hosea.”

I must be so used to sleepin’ in chairs by now, my body has completely forgotten what it’s like to lie flat and rest. There’s somethin’ not quite right about all of this; Snooty couldn’t have been so wrapped up in herself that she didn’t see my car that Monday, and she could describe me in a snap, especially the rough way I must’ve been lookin’ that day. With Milton on his payroll, Cornwall would’ve known it was me snoopin’ around before I’d even got Peaches home on Saturday night. _But there’s nothin’, not even a tail_.  
I hear a noise out by my front door and listen for more. It stays quiet beyond the sound of a car engine disappearin’. The dawn is pretty much hittin’ my windows now so I might as well get up, dress and see what it was. There’s an envelope on my door mat; Marston came good after all.  
I brew up some coffee and start with the light mornin’ readin’. I must say my skills with a camera ain’t bad, maybe I could make a profession of it. Though I don’t know if my talents would stretch beyond hidin’ in garbage and takin’ snaps secretly, and I don’t want that as a career. Let’s face it; Paparazzi are lower than pond scum in the job world.  
It’s too early for Peaches, and I should take one copy of these prints to my office, then swing by Pearson’s for breakfast, though after lookin’ at those photographs I’m not sure my appetite will ever come back.


	6. Chapter 6

I guess my workplace is as good a place to meet as any. Judgin’ by our conversation over the phone last night she wanted the whole business done with sooner rather than later.  
“ _Cornwall Residence._ ”  
“Evenin’. You alright?”  
“ _Mister Morgan?! Oh my goodness! Yes, yes I’m fine! I thought something had happened to you!_ ”  
I won’t lie, that was nice to hear, “Nothin’ spectacular. Apologies to disappoint you.”  
“ _I’m pretty sure you couldn’t disappoint me_.”  
With the memories of last Saturday knockin’ heavily at my mind, I thought it best to keep the conversation brief, “Look, I got what you wanted.”  
“ _You mean…?_ ”  
“Yup. All in black and white. Doubt it would make much money on the smut scene, but seein’ as you’re the buyer I’m sure we can do business.”  
I hear her breathy chuckle, and steel myself to not back down on sendin’ her the bill.  
“ _Well this is quite wonderful news, Mister Morgan, you are a very fast worker_.”  
“Only when occasion calls for it.”  
“ _And your bank balance is in jeopardy_.”  
“That too. And about that…”  
“Let me come to your office tomorrow, _early_ , we can discuss the financials then.”  
“Good.”

And now it’s tomorrow, and early. I don’t make the same mistake as last time and grab breakfast before gettin’ to my old familiar buildin’. I sit and scrawl out the list of costs; workin’ for the embittered wealthy ain’t such a cheap job, and it don’t take long neither. This bill should see me good for rent and whiskey for a few weeks at least, and maybe Peaches will put in a good word for me with widowers wantin’ a check on their baby-faced beaus. Not that I particularly enjoy the route of followin’ con-artist lovers, but the longer I’m in this game the more that seems to be the job, at least this one was a lover wantin’ out from day one. I’m still shaky though; there’s somethin’ all too easy about this. Maybe he really doesn’t notice what she’s been up to, maybe he’s such a blinkered, pompous ass he thinks all women just do as they’re told. _Some men just don’t get women_. I chuckle into my coffee, pay up and head to the office, I figure I can let this one go from the expenses.

Considerin’ I spend more time here than I do in my own home, the place ain’t lookin’ too bad, maybe because for the past week I’ve been concentratin’ on a job rather than the bottle. I swap the empty wastepaper basket from the waitin’ room with my overflowin’ one, and stash it behind a chair in the corner, that should at least add to the tidy ambience to some degree. As I have a good hour to kill, I set myself with a coffee, cigarette, and try and make this farcical job look more professional by typin’ up what I know, typin' up my bill so it at least pretends to look official, and filin’ it all in a buff envelope folder. It’s not long until she’ll appear. My Client, that’s all I should be referrin’ to her as, especially as I’m about to hand her a bill that includes a steak and eggs lunch.  
I set the scene up like I know what I’m doin’, put a fresh pot of Joe on to brew and wait. It’s not long until the buzzer goes, and I have to stop myself from launchin’ across the room to answer it. I wait by my door as I hear the tell-tale click of those heels and almost stop breathin’ as she appears at the top of the stairs. She’s not dressed for an early mornin’, not for any day of the week, not even for Mardi-Gras, but my heart feels like it’s tryin’ to join some fictitious dance party, and it takes all of my strength to act like she’s more plain than a week-old biscuit.  
“Good morning, Mister Morgan.”  
“Ma’am.” I nod with a clenched jaw and force myself to keep starin’ straight at her eyes and those ain’t any less distractin’, “Come in.”  
She seems almost giddy as she stands waitin’ to be invited to take a seat, “Take a seat.”  
“Thank you.”  
Her manner is definitely strugglin’ with her emotions and she seems a little flush as she keeps clearin’ her throat as a means to stop a smile from appearin’ on her face.  
“drink?”  
“No thank you, I won’t. I have a busy day today, I have to see a lawyer after this.”  
“ _Dressed like that?!_ ” I didn’t mean to but I said it out loud. It ain’t even none of my business, maybe she’s just tryin’ to get a cheap deal from all us love-starved guys in town today.  
“I am going to meet some friends after that, _not that it is any concern of yours_.” She twists in her chair to look at me as I pour myself a coffee and she grins at me like a kid burnin’ ants, “ _and considering this is all I brought to wear today, it’s better than nothing at all_.”  
She knows how to play a man and I ain’t nothin’ more than a yo-yo to her, all the more proven as I burn my hand on my overflowin’ coffee, all from starin’ too long. _Not your most dashin’ of moments, Morgan_.  
I endure her stifled chuckles as I return to my seat, throwin’ out the most professional file to her, which quickly quiets her down. I watch her pick it up delicately, as if it were priceless, and she hesitates to open it.  
“Is this…?”  
“It’s what we’ve discussed.”  
I watch her eyes widen and those perfect lips part slightly as she opens it with tremblin’, excited hands, and I sit back, sippin’ my coffee with a smirk as her beautiful face drops, “I don’t understand. This… This is just-”  
“My bill.” I sit up and lean forward, “I need a guarantee that when you go skippin’ off to your Lawyer’s office I ain’t sat here as poor as I was when this case started.”  
She didn’t seem to appreciate that, “I gave you my word didn’t I?”  
“Lady, I’m not sure where you’re from if _speech_ is a financial down payment for a job. And I distinctly remember tellin’ you that I can’t live on pleasantries. I can give you these photographs before you leave my office today, but I need somethin’ in the form of restitutions for my time.”  
“And _I told you,_ you’ll get paid.”  
“So you did.” I don’t move, I simply sit and watch her on the back foot in a game she can’t possibly win, as long as I can hold it together. I can’t understand why Cornwall wouldn’t be at this woman’s beck and call every hour of the day, let alone slum it with the likes of that feather duster at the Râleur. Even when she’s mad she’s magnetic.  
“All I have is my money for my legal counsel today.” She huffs as she rummages through her purse.  
“So give me half, I’ll give you half the photographs, we’ll call it a deposit.”  
“And what am I supposed to pay the Lawyer?”  
“The other half,” I laugh as she flings the bills on the desk, “dressed like that I’d be surprised if he’d need payin’ anythin’ at all.” I take the money, give it a rough count, and go to put it in my safe.  
“ _You did.”_ I hear her mumble, almost hurt.  
“I ain’t a rich Lawyer. I’m barely rich enough to be poor.” I stand up and throw her three of the six images, “Now, I’d appreciate you gettin’ me the rest of my payment quick, I don’t like the idea of these other images litterin’ up my life. It’s bad enough I’m gonna have to live with the memory of the live show.”  
She leans herself across the desk and takes the pictures, slidin’ them into the folder, “So I guess, _technically_ , you’re still under my employment, Mister Morgan.”  
“I think you’ll find, Mrs Cornwall, that I have held up my side of our agreement, and you are now, in fact, in my debt.”  
“ _What a place to be_.” She purrs that line like she’s said it a million times before, and I don’t doubt that number for a second.  
“Well, as I am no longer a client of yours, I guess you’re currently _off the clock_.” She saunters across to me and I feel myself grow hotter with every sway of her hips.  
“Not bad considerin’ it ain’t even ten in the mornin’ yet.”  
“And, as I recall, that’s out of hours anyway.”  
She steps close to me and she’s back wearin’ that floral perfume which cuts through my senses quicker than lightnin’. She looks up at me with sleepy, calm eyes and a satisfied smile stretched across those rouged, temptin’ lips. I’m a wreck just standin’ there and I don’t dare move as her hand runs up my arm.  
“You know, you don’t seem a man in place here.”  
“I ain’t in place anywhere.” I manage; my throat dry and my temples sweatin’, “I figure if I’m always gonna stick out, I might as well make some money off it. People don’t figure you for a detective if you’re obvious.”  
“I bet.” She’s draggin’ her hand from my shoulder to my chest and before I know it, my hands are at her hips, “Tall, abrupt, unsociable; the _very example_ of an army man.” Her beautiful eyes spark and she pulls a dirty smile from the corner of her mouth as she rises onto her toes and leans to me, “ _Another forgotten hero left to fend for himself_.”  
“Lady, if this is your plan to get outta the rest of my payment, you’re wastin’ your time.” I don’t even know how I manage to string a sentence together, let alone one so absolutely necessary, I’m almost proud of myself.  
“ _Consider this a bonus_.” She mumbles against my lips before she pushes herself into another skull-burstin’ kiss.  
This time she gave me ample warnin’ signs to be ready, and I take her in my arms, pullin’ her to me as if the world depended on it. She was electric; urgent and overtaken with a need I more than matched. I didn’t stop to think where this might end, or even if it would; I had dwelled on last Saturday’s embrace more than a man beyond his teenage years should, and I was not about to let this moment be ripped from me as well. I follow her lead as she pulls me towards the edge of the desk and her body signals for me to take her and lie her back against it. _So much for professional_.  
Everythin’ in my mind tells me I should pull back, but my mind stopped bein’ in charge the moment she walked up those stairs, and the way in which her body is pullin’ me, I don’t believe a single part of me is callin’ the shots. It’s been a long time since I found myself in such a lucky situation, and I find myself wonderin’ if she dressed for the occasion. Who needs Christmas when a mundane weekday can turn into this? I finally kick my conscious into gear and lean into every roll and writhe of her. I try to keep my hunger under control as I run my hand up her thigh, following the line of the suspenders, searchin’ for the edge of her underwear, and I hear her moan a long, happy moan, and all it does is push me to hear it again.  
She’s like nothin’ I’ve known before, and she swirls through me like a bottle of good bourbon; warm and sweet with a kick that you don’t want to end. Every part of her draws me in and I soon find the places that cause those noises in her, and she responds with a touch that makes me surrender to her without question.

Time passes, and I do not care by how much. My office has gone from ‘ _tidy dive_ ’ to disarray; everythin’ from her professionally created folder, to my desk lamp is strewn across the floor, and we lie there - tired and breathless – in silence.  
“I’m going to be late.” Peaches sits up and fixes herself before scurryin’ to her purse, and grabbin’ the mirror from it to check how much of her makeup has shifted in what turns out to be the last hour.  
“I hope you realise that this still don’t negate our financial agreement.” _What the hell is wrong with you, Morgan?_  
She looks at me with amusement, “I would never assume that, Mister Morgan, you have been most vocal on the matter… _other than for the last 60 minutes_.”  
I sit up and try and regain some form of composure; it’s a ridiculous notion tryin’ to be professional after an exquisite sixty minutes, but I ain’t good at the ‘after’ small talk; the whole thing is absurd, “Well I guess we found a way to shut me up then.”  
She comes back to me and straightens my collar, “ _Not exactly_.” She smirks.  
I check my watch and is it most definitely workin’ hours, and, funnily enough, after ten. I can’t even begin to imagine what the offices next door, or anyone in the waitin’ room, heard.  
“Thank you for… _Everything_ this morning, Mister Morgan, all-in-all I would say this has been a most productive use of my time today.” She picks up everythin’ that she needs and walks towards the door lookin’ as perfect as she did when she arrived.  
“I trust I will see you again soon, Miss.” I go to reach past her to open the door and she pulls me in for one more long, time-stoppin’ kiss.  
“ _You can count on it_.”  
I watch her leave and close the door with one satisfied slump against it and look back towards my trash-heap of an office.  
Once all the upturned belongins are righted, and I recount and check the bills she’s given me I figure I am owed an afternoon of leisure; I close up head downstairs and stop to light a cigarette on the corner from my office. Money and sex; all before lunch. Maybe This year ain’t quite such a bad one.

And then it comes; the sharp, fast pain against my skull. And then nothin’.  
  



	7. Chapter 7

It’s a funny thing, comin’ round from a blow to the head. You would think it was like wakin’ up from a bad dream until you realise you ain’t dreamin’. I dunno how other folks feel about that, but I certainly don’t reckon that’s it. I remember bein’ knocked out. I remember the almost irritatin’ pain before the world faded, I kinda feel like I remember bein’ lugged about until I was dumped onto a chair somewhere cold and echoey. And as much as my head is achin’, I ain’t had enough smarts knocked outta me yet to announce my re-emergence to the conscious world. One thing you always do is wait. Wait until you get somethin’ of use to your situation; be it a location, information for leverage, or an understandin’ of how many folks you’re gonna have to floor to get outta there. I realise that I ain’t tied up as I feel all the blood poolin’ in my hands, and my neck is pullin’ on my shoulders somethin’ awful with me bein’ slumped forward. That’s the problem with bein’ conscious; your body tries to stop you pretendin’ to be anythin’ else. But I sit there – my arms limply hangin’ by my side, my eyes closed and my ears strainin’ towards the low mumble across the room. _Who the hell has done this? And Why?_ I know a few who would be more than happy to see it done, but none with the stones to do it.

From the temperature and echo of the room, I reckon I’m in some concrete place; it smells damp but there’s a sharpness to it. Salty. Must be the docks.  
“ _When’s he getting here? The guy’s not even tied up. He’s a war hero for God’s sake! I ain’t happy about him just sittin’ there, what if he just gets up and goes for us?!_ ”  
It takes all my effort not to smile. I like this guy. Maybe I won’t kick him to the ground.  
“ _His body’s worn ‘n’ fulla shrapnel wounds and bourbon, if he gets up at all it’ll take the oaf ten minutes to lumber towards us. He ain’t got his gun. The lump ain’t a problem._ ”  
Lump. Nice. Real gentleman that one.  
I hear the scrape of a heavy door open, and a tired sigh from the entrant. There’s some mild pleasantries bein’ exchanged and the shortest, sharpest enquiry as to my alertness from a voice I recognise.  
“Still out? _Still OUT??!_ There is no way on God’s green earth that man is still unconscious!” the voice blustered, “Not only because it’s been a good _hour_ since you called me from here, but because his skull is more than likely extraordinarily thick!”  
“Well now, I don’t see it fair to fling assumptions toward a man that’s just sittin’ here.”  
They all stop as I draw myself up into a far more comfortable slouch, stretchin’ my shoulders with relief. It’s nice to know my skills ain’t so dull yet as I scan the newspaper storage warehouse I’m sittin’ in.  
“So you decide to declare yourself awake now do you?”  
“When the density of my cranium is under some scrutiny, I feel it wise to do so, sir, yes.”  
He takes a handkerchief from his beautifully lined jacket and fruitlessly mops his neck sweat away as he angrily marches towards me _. Why the hell are rich folk always marchin’?  
_ “You know who I am?”  
“Wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t.”  
“Considering you’re sitting in my presence right now with what must be a large lump beginning to protrude from the back of your head, I’m finding it difficult to believe you are any good at your job.”  
I open my mouth to say somethin’ about his wife disagreein’ with him on the subject of my abilities, but I think better of it.

“You know why you’re here?”  
“I can hazard a few guesses.”  
The ruddy face of Cornwall leans down to me like some bearded, gleamin’ side of ham at the butcher shop, “ _What you think you saw on Saturday, was not what it was_.”  
“Well what did I think I was seein’?” Unlike Cornwall, I didn’t see the point in lyin’ about my situation. It does seem that Peaches managed to avoid detection however, which was a relief.  
Cornwall winces an irritated smile before noisily drawin’ up a chair in front of me, “You know, a lot of people dislike rats; they see them as vermin. Always getting into places they shouldn’t, spreading their _disease_. I actually find them fascinating creatures. They’re _smart_ , _resourceful_. However,” he starts, leanin’ back in some misguided attempt at intimidation, “it doesn’t mean I am remotely interested in keeping them around. _Especially_ ones that live in the garbage.”  
“Probably wise. They’ll chew through trash in no time, cause all kinds of problems.”  
“What were you doing there on Saturday?”  
“Seein’ somethin’ that wasn’t anythin’… _Apparently_.”  
Cornwall huffs a half-amused grunt from his fat little nose and stands over me, “And who sent you on your sightseeing tour?”  
“Ah, well here we come to an impasse. I ain’t at liberty to say.”  
“Are you legally obliged to withhold that information, _Detective Morgan_?”  
“No. I just don’t like you enough to mention it.”  
 ** _Crack_. **That was a punch for the ages. I’m almost impressed!  
“Maybe you just fancied yourself some voyeurism is that it?”  
“No offence, Mister Cornwall, but if I were into that kinda thing, the merry dance you two were doin’ was enough to set myself straight for a thousand lifetimes.”  
I can’t tell if the pink barrel is offended or not, he always has a sneer of disgust on his face while he’s talkin’ to me anyway. It was a lot like Old Snooty’s. Maybe it’s sexually transmitted.  
“You’re a man of the world are you not?”  
“Unfortunately so, yes.”  
“And being as such I am sure you have _dabbled_ in some of its romance?”  
I ain’t entirely sure where this is goin’, “… Romance ain’t really my style…”  
“Hmmm, I suppose not.” He sits his bulk back down and lightly massages his hittin’ hand, “Rough soldier like you probably treated a woman like an occupied town – get in, create a mess and leave them with nothing.”  
Funny asshole ain’t he? He’s almost as big a smartass as me.  
“Well, Morgan, for the more _sophisticated_ among us, we require companionship and something more robust.”

This is odd, the man is bein’ almost personable. All he’s done so far is have me kidnapped, call me a rat and punch me in the side of the head. As days go this is one of my better ones.  
“When a woman promises in front of God, _in front of your peers_ , that she will love, honour and obey you, you expect that some affection will follow on into the marriage itself. Unfortunately, that has not been forthcoming.”  
Rememberin’ I ain’t bound by ropes, I grab a smoke from my pants pocket and light it, “So I guess you were right earlier.”  
“When?”  
“When you said what I saw weren’t what it looked like. And here I was thinkin’ that was your bean pole of a _wife_.”

That boiled-ham face is back, and with it comes a thick sausage patty slab of a hand, straight across my face, knocking my only smoke to the floor.  
“NOW YOU LISTEN HERE YOU CANDY ASS SONOFABITCH!” I guess I got to him, “What you saw was a man in a moment of weakness! A ONE TIME MOMENT. I CAN’T AFFORD WEAKNESS LIKE THAT…!” He stops short of strikin’ me again, and in all honesty, I was so surprised by his outburst I forgot to laugh at the spectacle he was makin’. Probably for the best.

With a sigh of defeat, he picks up the chair he had launched out of, and flumps himself into it. I notice there’s still the fresh smell of smolderin’ tobacco in the air and reach to the floor for my cigarette, pickin’ the grit from it as he continues.  
“I had never seen her before in my life… I had received a telegram inviting me to that dastardly show, and then received a letter couriered directly to my office from the woman I visited.” I watched him squirm a little uncomfortably as I slid my smoke back into my mouth, “… The contents of which were… _Encouraging_ to say the least.”  
I hiccough a chuckle as I fiddle with my book of matches, “Well I am sorry you received such an item from her in particular.” I glance back up at him and he isn’t as impressed with my comment.  
“I need to know why you were there.”  
“You know I’m a detective. I was detectin’.”  
“Then I need you to work for me.”  
 _Cornwall._ He always thinks he can buy an answer, “I ain’t gonna do that Mister Cornwall.”  
“Then you better tell whoever is out for me that this won’t end well for them if they continue… _or you_.”  
“Can I go now? I got a lot to do today.”  
He waves me off And I head towards the door, takin’ my weapons from the wise guy on my way.  
“ _I love my wife, Morgan_.”  
“Sure you do.” And I’m beginnin’ to think he ain’t the only one.


End file.
